


On the Apparition of Spectres

by poetesmaudits



Series: nouvelles fantastiques [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (the author has never read dickens), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon Era, Dickensian Ghosts, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Revenge, Romanticism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28779807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: In the Winter of 1823, Tholomyès' past wisdom comes back to haunt him.
Series: nouvelles fantastiques [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006302
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	On the Apparition of Spectres

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: this fic very much does contain graphic violence leading to minor injuries (a nose bleed), alongside an active desire to harm somebody mentally; i do recommend being cautious if you believe these are themes that you could potentially find triggering.

In her journal, which she updated most dutifully and rigourously throughout her lifetime, Mme Tholomyès recalls rather unnatural events that had occured within the precinct of her family's estate in the winter of the year 1823. In an age where such story was most sought out within certain circles which we shall not name, her testimony was in those days received simultaneously with humour and much seriousness. Half believed the story to be no more than the product of the imagination of a bored housewife who had read too many romances, others believed it to be completely plausible—as for us, we have decided to leave the matter of doubt within the reader's hands. Here below is an accurate recapitulation of what Mme Tholomyès has witnessed for our most respectable readers to consult at their leisure.

The Tholomyès estate was in those days a vast, wide house that typically resembled a southern maison de maître, built in the region's brown stone; the domain was spacious, elegant, surrounded by a large wall over which passersby would on the occasion take a peek to admire its charm and beauty, all whilst dreaming about one day being as fortunate and wealthy as the bourgeois family that could afford such an expensive abode. It was located in the small town of Montastruc-la-Conseillère, some six leagues north of Toulouse. It is here that our story takes place.

M. Tholomyès, at age thirty-six, was balding. The crown of his head was ungarnished and as well-polished as an emerald vase, and with the dulling comforts that come with a well-paid job and a luxurious existence, he had become round, as all men his age and of his profession. What being a bourgeois had taught him was that the only religion one should swear by is liberalism, and that the best system to live under was, of course, a constitutional monarchy. This being said, he wasn't totally opposed to Louis XVIII's rule, as long as his politics enabled him to lead a prosperous existence, where he could practice his profession, pay a visit to his mistress in Toulouse thrice a week, and sleep in his wife's bed the other four days of the week. He lived a content life that left him believing he was an important and sought-out man, which he was, but also was not.

His wife, Mme Louise-Adélaïde Tholomyès, was seven months pregnant with their second child, whom her husband was certain would be a boy. Madame however was more inclined to believing it would be a second girl. She had once been an aristocrat who had needed to give up the particle to save her family from financial ruin, which she was extremely displeased about. She resented her husband and spent the greatest of her time taking care of their daughter and teaching her the most important values in life: virtue and propriety.

Mme Tholomyès, of course, knew nothing of her husband's past and present adventures, and not once he had mentioned any of his former _conquests_ to her, as one can expect from such a man.

After passing the bar, Tholomyès had left Paris, leaving behind a pregnant grisette without any financial support and for whom, as most men of his time, he felt contempt more than attraction. He had come back to his province in Haute-Garonne, where his father helped him secure a comfortable position as the local notary. Life had, since then, as the wealthy patriarch of a handsome estate, been pleasant.

Our readers will recognise in this grisette Fantine. They know what happened, and we will therefore not go into extensive details; only it is important to state that although poor Fantine had passed away ( _in pace_ ), it was said that she was not quite gone. Indeed, a piece of Fantine had remained on this Earth, and had looked over her daughter, whom she had without knowledge left to the hands of most cruel, miserly people. Her anger at her own naivety, but also at her once lover Tholomyès was unquelled, and upon seeing the misery her daughter was condemned to live in, she had decided to act upon this anger, and to plot her revenge against Félix Tholomyès—not until then would her tormented soul be at peace.

It took no more than a few days for the vengeful spirit to find this man's trace, and she had watched him diligently for months, plotting her vengeance which she swore would be terrible. She had seen how the man had taken a wife and how he now had a little girl, blonde—just like Cosette—named Pétronille, who wore pretty lace dresses and ribbons, who received presents at Easter, owned a real bed and who had maids to coddle her, under the mistress of the house (her mother)'s supervision. 

She waited for the first snows to fall in December to enact her revenge.

It was habitual for Tholomyès to take a bath on Sunday mornings, before mass. The bathroom, which was connected to his bedroom by a small door in the left-hand corner upon entering, was small and it was not unusual for a thick fog to weigh heavily in the air from the hot water the man bathed in. There was enjoyment in letting his body melt away like a candle in this warm tub, his skin lobster-red from the heat. It was one of his many moments of privacy and comfort which he cherished. The domestics were told never to interrupt.

Tholomyès had just pulled his head out from under water when he saw from the corner of his eyes the bathroom door open.

“No,” he said in the imperative tone of the high commander he was not.

The door continued to open, and just as Tholomyès was about to repeat himself, he noticed no one seemed to be standing there. Believing this to be the product of a grotesque joke, he said: “Whoever you are, show yourself, and please do shut the door! You're letting a dreadful breeze in!”

The door shut on its own accord with an eerie slowness, squeaking just a little bit on the end, making a shiver run through Tholomyès' spine. No one was there. He heard no footsteps that could have indicated to one of the domestics' presence.

He shrugged and resumed his bathing—perhaps Pétronille was playing a trick on him.

Upon climbing out of the tub, he, however, saw, on the foggy mirror, the word _COSETTE_ written by an invisible hand, which left him in a certain state of terror as these letters, this word, or this name, or whatever _this_ was, stared back at him—a message, a warning perhaps, from a ghost or the devil. The warmth that had momentarily embraced him was now as cold as ice and he trembled all over, before running out of the bathroom, in nothing but a bathrobe, away from this cursed omen.

Fantine was pleased.

She decided to wait before entering the second stage of her machiavellian plan. Her aim was to scare Tholomyès, but not his family. None had believed the little bathroom incident, of course, and his wife had told him this was no more than a crude joke someone was playing on him—no one in this Christian household could have ever conceived the hypothesis of some supernatural occurrence to explain the event.

The second trick was thus enacted during the daily four o'clock break, a week later. The Tholomyès couple was enjoying a cup of coffee in the drawing room whilst politely discussing social events. Suddenly, for only a fraction of a second, Fantine manifested herself under a visible form right behind Mme Tholomyès, making the patriarch spit his coffee all over his front and drop his cup which cracked and splattered all over the Persian carpet, spreading like gangrene in its intricate weaving. Upon the look of horror etched on his face, Mme Tholomyès turned around, but evidently, nothing—or no one—was there.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked, frowning, “Look at what you've done, you've ruined grand-mama's carpet!”

“I-” was all Tholomyès managed to say as he swallowed thickly, “I thought I saw something.”

Mme Tholomyès looked at him suspiciously, but then turned and called for a maid's assistance.

Thrice this trick was repeated.

Once whilst Félix was visiting his mistress, which brought a very sudden end to their debauchery, a second time whilst traveling to town—she made a sudden apparition right next to one of his colleagues in the carriage, facing her victim. He had let out a rather loud gasp to the great incomprehension of the other men in the carriage, before proceeding to vomit. By the time the fourth apparition took place, the notary of Montastruc had become paranoid and feared the spirit's unexpected return at any moment, in any place, and often he stayed up late at night, exhausted, fearing she might appear, if not presently, then perhaps in his dreams.

He had recognised her, thankfully, and he feared her. It made our ghost feel tremendously powerful. Her final apparition of the kind happened one morning whilst he was (once again) bathing. The water was not so hot anymore as to fog up the entire room, and Tholomyès was lounging there, with his eyes shut, looking almost asleep. Fantine opened the door and shut it behind her, which made the man open his eyes and take a very deep, terrified breath—however he did not move, almost as if he had been expecting her. She waited for him to calm down, which took another ten minutes, and just as he had leaned back against one of the edges of the tub, she approached him and with tremendous strength, dunked his head under water. She let go immediately, of course, as her intention was merely to scare him, and the man pathetically gasped as his head rose back to the surface, and his eyes shot wide open as he looked for her, but could not find her. He climbed out of the bathtub rather frantically as one does when confronted to ghosts in bathrooms, almost slipped on the carpet as he did so, wrapped himself in his bathrobe, and with a tremour in his hand, made for the door, which was jammed.

"This is false, Félix," he said to himself, "This is the fruit of your imagination, ghosts do not exist. This is stress, this is illness, this is anything but it is _not_ a revenant!"

He moved away from the door, went to lean against a chest-of-drawers over which hung the mirror. He bowed his head and took a few very deep breaths to calm himself down. His entire body was shaking all over, as though fighting the reality of the situation to his very core. His breathing was wheezy, his eyes were swollen red from the marrow-deep fear he had been overcome with for now weeks. When he looked back into the mirror, Fantine was standing behind him, and his heart leaped with such violence that he yelped and turned around to face her, wide-eyed. However, in the time it took him to do this, she was already gone.

“Fantine!” he had then called, shouting, sweating with fear, on the verge of hysterical tears, naked and alone in his bathroom, “Fantine! O Fantine! What have I done to deserve this?”

 _Everything_ , she thought, but did not say, and left him to his suffering.

-

As it is expected from someone undergoing such terrifying and inexplicable torments, Tholomyès was confined to bed rest after this last encounter. Everyone believed him to have developed some illness that made him see things that weren't there. Upon insisting a ghost was haunting him, the doctor had merely sighed very deeply, given him a pitiful look, and informed him that there was no such thing as ghosts, spectres, vampires, or any supernatural creatures of the kind for that matter. He finished his argumentation of an impeccable logic by recommending his client read Voltaire's _Dictionnaire philosophique_ for further enlightenment.

“I am not mad,” repeated Tholomyès, “I know what I saw.”

“And what did you see?” asked his wife.

“A memento mori, perhaps.”

His wife rolled her eyes and took little Pétronille's hand; “You're being ridiculous, Félix, you are not dying, but are merely exhausted. Bed rest will do you good. You work so hard to achieve what you have, everything is merely catching up to you now. Make sure you get well for Christmas, my parents will be there, we will expect you to be on your best behaviour.”

Tholomyès, who usually despised being told what to do by a woman, nodded his head and collapsed back against the pillows, closing his eyes in case Fantine would appear to him once again. He now believed that God was trying to tell him something, and had sent him an angel, or perhaps the devil, to warn him of some forthcoming doom.

On Christmas eve, their entire family gathered for the occasion around a luxurious meal testifying of the refinement and superiority of French upper-class cuisine. Tholomyès had followed his wife's orders and had made an appearance, although he was still pale and tired looking. He had lost more hair in a few weeks than he had all year. The dinner occurred without incident and at midnight they all left for mass. Tholomyès, who had never been a god-fearing man before, prayed and begged for this nightmare to be over soon. But Fantine had other plans...

As the evening had reached an end and everyone went back to their respective quarters, Tholomyès, having drunk admittedly more than he should have, fell asleep immediately upon reaching his bed.

At three o'clock, the bedroom door opened. Tholomyès, whom as we stated had fallen into a deep slumber, heard nothing and saw nothing. His wife, exhausted and pregnant, was in a similar state. Fantine observed them for a moment and took a deep breath, not able to refrain herself from thinking about a time when she too had slept like this in a bed with this man, not so long ago.

Tholomyès had the rather unfortunate habit of keeping a single foot in the open-air whilst asleep, hanging over the side of the bed, teasingly, an invitation for a ghost or a ghoul or any kind of supernatural being to yank at it. Fantine could not resist the temptation and did that exactly. Tholomyès fell out of bed in a loud thump. His wife had heard nothing; she wore earplugs to sleep through her husband's insufferable snoring.

Before Tholomyès could realise what was happening to him, Fantine grabbed both his ankles and dragged him out of the room as he began to shout and attempt to wriggle out of her iron grip—alas! in vain. His cries for help echoed across the house as he desperately held onto carpets and furniture alike in a sad attempt to slow down his abductor—however the spectre seemed to possess a formidable, supernatural strength that made it impossible to escape what damned fate she had in mind for her victim. Domestics came rushing out of their quarters, just in time to see their master get dragged down the stairs by his feet as he screamed in terror, trying simultaneously to protect himself from banging his head and holding onto the banister for dear life.

“What are you waiting for?” he cried as the domestics stared in horror, “Stop her! Help me for God's sake!”

What Tholomyès didn't know was that he was the only one able to see his captor. To the eyes of his servants, it looked only as though an invisible force was dragging him down the stairs. Fantine was unresponsive to his pleas and cries, and simply walked on, careless of the damage her victim endured along the way. All Tholomyès could do was fight like a madman in an attempt to escape her deadly hold. He banged his head and nose a few times against the steps and his breath hitched as he saw his own blood staining the old, elegant oak wood of the stairs, almost as if it suddenly reminded him that he was alive, that he was mortal, that he bled and felt pain like every other person, that he could feel fear like any other person. Somewhere in his mind, he had the distinctive feeling that this was exactly what Fantine wanted to show him; that it was not to him to play God with other people's lives. This made him scream twice as hard. Still, the domestics did not move, horrified, doing the sign of the cross repeatedly in the hope that if anything, the devil will spare them.

Eventually they reached the main hall and Fantine pushed open the front door in one loud bang, and upon seeing that she was dragging him out in the cold, Tholomyès redoubled his vigour, to no avail. At this hour of the night, the snow shone blue under the moon's scrutinous and yet unresponsive gaze, a silent witness looking over the scene, a giant and milky, unblinking eye. The snow was cold and crisp against his skin, wetting his night shirt and sending bolts of fresh stupour through his body. Desperately he tried to grab onto clods of green, frozen grass, but all efforts were vain, as Fantine, as strong as Samson, pulled him away, away from safety, away from comfort, away from his home. The house's shadow stretched over them like a haunting, growing spectre, the windows golden with light served as the devilish judges to his trial, and the door, which was left wide open, was a gaping mouth, screaming, screaming, screaming.

His hands were numb from the cold and his throat was raw, furious angry tears were running down his cheeks, saliva was coming out of his mouth, and desperately he made one more tremendous effort to wriggle out of this angel of death's clutch. Fantine did not let go, and all he could do, was pray to God that He would be merciful in his punishments.

Just as he had entirely given up and was certain he was about to die; the spirit stopped and let go of his reddened ankles. Tholomyès was so exhausted, so cold, so petrified, he could not have moved, had his brain even been able to process his sudden release. He was hauled and placed against a tree trunk, half slouching, half leaning to the side, threatening to fall back into the snow.

The woman—who in his eyes was not even a woman, but rather the Devil—towered over him with a look of pure, unrivaled loathing burning in her eyes, and surely, surely this was the end, for such an intimidating spectre would give him no ultimatum. She looked just as when he had first met her; young and rosy and blonde, though the look of sweet, tender innocence that had once swam in the blueness of her irises was now replaced by that of a hundred year old soul, one who had suffered and known death a thousand times over, and whilst reasonably he knew this was not what Fantine had gone through, it still made him shudder.

All Tholomyès could ask, in this moment, as the wind howled in the high branches and the snow fell soundly, as he sat there, damp and cold and battered, was: “Will it be painful?”

Something resembling a sneer distorted the spectre's features.

“Is it pain that frightens you, more than anything else?”

She did not have the kindness to call him _vous_. Her voice was withered and broken; it was that of someone who had gone through months of illness and pain.

Tholomyès did not dare answer. Somewhere in the distance he heard the shouts of men and the barks of dogs, perhaps coming to his rescue. But what could they have done against someone whose time on Earth had already passed? He shuddered all over.

"Why have you come?" he asked instead.

Fantine's face then adopted a look of extreme disappointment; "Don't you know?"

"To take your revenge? Hurt me as I have hurt you?"

The voices were getting louder, perhaps they had gathered men from the neighbourhood to come and save him.

"Yes," she replied, for this was indeed her primary aim, even though deep down she knew there were other, more complex explanations to her apparition, inexplicable and thus dwelling somewhere deep in the meandres of her mind as drifting, fluttering ideas. She had never been very good with words, but the silence that follows and the look on Tholomyès' face said that perhaps he too understood that there was so much more. She then added: "Do you understand now?"

His head fell forward, and his whole body threatened to collapse onto itself. She did nothing to stop it. She saw that he was crying; "I do," he said, "I do and I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

Tholomyès sniffed.

-

By the time they—a group of half-dressed men in night caps, armed with shotguns and ornamental sabres—found Tholomyès, he was still slouched against the thick tree trunk in the park behind the house, with above his head, carved into the bark the same seven letters that he had first read on that fateful Sunday and that had announced the beginning of his torment— _COSETTE_ —the peels resting in his lap, as he sat there, shivering all over, eyes wide and staring ahead at something that wasn't there. As his family gathered around him, he broke into tears. When asked what had happened, what was this satanic creature, he could only shake his head. The priest received him and he confessed his sins, though it did very little to ease his soul. Fantine was no creature of God, no demon, no angel; Fantine had simply been a consequence to his actions, a repercussion—justice, in a way. She had instilled perspective and fear into his soul, had shown that there was, in this great big world, a more-than-divine order of things that could not be violated.

Tholomyès never met Cosette and never attempted to look for her, for he understood this was not what was expected of him, but for the rest of his life, he felt regret, which ultimately, was the ghost's aim.

On that same Christmas, up north, Cosette found in the man with great sad eyes and a yellow coat a father. 


End file.
